Am I Being Served?

05 Mar 2007


He looks you over,
knows you're a textbook 42R,
with a 36-inch waist before
ever touching you.
He helps you on with the jacket,
a wool blend or something.
You try the trousers ...
The man inserts his hand
into your waistband,
runs it along from your
side to your belly button,
lingering just two seconds longer
than you thought necessary,
comments on the tidy fit,
says you'd look good in pink.
A hand in your pants being one thing,
you disagree, having to
draw the line somewhere.
He looks again, suggests "aluminum"
this time, and that sounds wonderful,
almost fabulous, though you
find yourself struggling for a
less flamboyant response.
"Excellent," you finally say.
You stand on a wooden box,
looking ahead at the three-way,
He kneels before you,
the flimsy yellow tape dangling
from his teeth, his hand,
in a moment, at your crotch,
taking your inseam hem.
You'd swear the sly devil
copped a subtle feel
during the measurement,
but can't say for sure.
(In the end, does it really matter?)
Everything fits, looks good.

* * *

Okay, that's probably not really an ode. I've long forgotten what makes an ode an ode. Actually, I'm just wondering if you think I bought a new suit or had a homo-erotic experience? I'm still not sure myself.

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